In 2020, my best friend Ginny died at home. She was my sister friend. My ride or die friend (before that was a thing). She was the one who made everything OK. In the months that followed, I developed odd habits. I wandered my early pandemic hallways in pajamas like a neo-Victorian ghost, staring out windows at shifting skies. I sought solace in tarot cards and text chains, her voice evoked silently in black and white. One day, I made a six-hour playlist of every song that reminded me of her, so much Faith No More and Nirvana. (Hello 90s teenage years draped in flannel.) Mostly, I wandered my neighborhood and sobbed, grateful for the anonymity of a bandana mask.

Also, I wrote. 

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Published September 4, 2024